by J Q Anderson
I dropped my bag next to Marcos’s. From the floor, Natascha—or Nata as I called her—eyed me up and down, the soles of her slippers pressed together as she pushed her knees to the floor.
“What took you so long?” She frowned. “You’re flushed.” Even though she had lived in Buenos Aires since she was twelve, a hint of a Russian accent always filtered out when she nagged me, which as my roommate, she did often.
“I got held up,” I said. I felt Marcos’s curious eyes watching me from the mirror, but I didn’t look up. Nata kept her eyes on her reflection as she stretched into a perfect split.
“Held up by what?”
A gorgeous stranger. “Stuff, I don’t know,” I mumbled, peeling off my sweats and fishing inside my bag for my old ballet shoes. I couldn’t lie for crap, and she would grill me if I mentioned bumping into a hot guy. She suddenly looked up and her cerulean eyes brightened.
“So? Do you have them? Let me see.”
I pulled the shoes out of my bag and handed them to her. She held them carefully, as if they could break in her hands, and we both admired Anna’s outstanding work. They really were beautiful.
“I almost got killed today because of those.” The words had escaped before I realized.
“What?” Nata’s head snapped up. “Why?”
“I dropped one as I was crossing 9 de Julio, and I ran back to get it.”
“You what?”
“You’re shitting me, right?” Marcos chuckled.
I grimaced. “Marcos, I never got that expression.”
“It means, are you fucking kidding? You jump into traffic for a shoe? Um, sorry to break it to you this late in the game, love, but we get those for free here.”
“You get them for free. I won’t until I become a soloist. And this is not just a shoe.” I snatched the shoes from Nata’s hands and tucked them back inside my bag. “You try dancing in Anna’s shoes and tell me you wouldn’t jump into traffic for them. Besides, these are unique. Anna hand-embroiders them herself with silk threads you can only get in Prague.”
Marcos shook his head while I slipped my old pointe shoes on and quickly tied the ribbons around my ankles. They were almost dead now, and I should’ve invested in a new regular pair instead of depleting all my savings to buy Anna’s. I would have to Jet Glue these to keep them alive until I got paid. Worst part was I wouldn’t even get to wear Anna’s. They were a gift to myself for when I got my first role as a prima. It was stupid, I knew. But it was my own dangling carrot, and I needed it.
The class filled with dancers taking their spots at the portable barres. Nata glanced at my battered shoes and clutched my wrists to pull me up. Her perfectly drawn eyebrows puckered together.
“I worry about you sometimes.”
“Don’t. Besides…” I smirked. “I made it right on time for Madame’s daily dose.” I nodded at the door where our ballet instructor stood in conversation with another teacher. “Navarro, wake up! Your form is sloppy! Don’t annoy me, girl!” I spat out in Madame Vronsky’s thick Russian accent. Nata and Marcos laughed, and the mood lightened.
Then Madame entered the room.
She began lecturing with her usual stoic, imperturbable demeanor. A legendary teacher in the company, she had been a prima with the Royal Ballet and, like my mother, was one of the most glorified dancers in ballet history. We were all intimidated by her presence and extremely proud to be under her tutelage.
She walked among the dancers as they stood en pointe, slapping their limbs into place and grimacing at the most minute imperfections.
“Carla, back!” she barked. Carla instantly straightened her back.
We craved attention from the teachers—especially Madame Vronsky’s. Getting corrections in class was a good sign, even if it meant criticism. Anything was better than being ignored. Lucky me, Madame had made a sport of pointing out my mistakes. Like everyone in the company, she reminded me daily that I was taking up a spot at the Colón’s permanent ballet, and also like most, she called me by my last name. The message was clear: I was the daughter of Inés Navarro, nothing more. But it made me want to work harder, longer.
I followed the warm-up routine and felt Madame watching me closely, her piercing green eyes missing nothing. By now I had learned to read her. I knew every look, every one of her gestures and what they meant. Most of them alluded to the fact that I could do better, but every so often she gave me the slightest nod, a smidge of approval, and those scant moments made the daily uphill battle worth it.
My thoughts went back to the events from the early morning, and the chemical frenzy I had felt in the arms of that stranger. I could still see his eyes, so intense I was sure he was able to see right through me. A warm sensation swam in my belly. I switched legs and found Madame standing behind me with her lips pressed in a thin line.
“Navarro, pull your ribs in. Are you sleeping? You look like you are asleep. Come on. The audience does not pay to watch you sleep.” She eyed the new, gray leotard I had bought at a thrift shop and scrunched her nose as if she were smelling something bad. “That is not your color, girl,” she said. “You must wear black or navy blue. Your bosoms need to appear more discreet, Navarro. Ballet is elegance. Always.”
She then moved on to her next victim. I felt my face burn as I exchanged a quick look with Marcos, who couldn’t keep a straight face. I narrowed my eyes. Cocky bastard. Marcos was not only naturally gifted but also obsessed with ballet. Like, for real. There was nothing else. No one else. To him, dates with girls had an expiration date of a single night, and I had never seen him with the same girl twice. Not that I held it against him. To most of us dancers, the rest of the world was just the leftovers of a full day of classes, rehearsals, yoga, physical therapy, and ice packs. But Marcos took our ballet-dominated life to a whole new level. Madame loved it: him, his passion, his talent, all of it. And she never, ever, harassed him.
Our teacher continued wandering around the class repeating in singsong, “and one, and left, and two, and up, and stay. Stay, stay. Like this, longer. And one, pa pa pa, and two…” She paused by Nata, arching an impressed eyebrow. It always amazed me to watch Nata at work, even during warm-up classes. She was flawless. A physically perfect ballet specimen, yes, but the most impressive thing about her was how, despite the glorious gene package she’d been handed, she never took anything for granted. Her family had immigrated from Russia with practically nothing and had built a successful business from the ground up. With every role she was given, Nata worked tirelessly until all imperfections had been erased. Her moves looked effortless, precise, even during transitions and impossibly difficult steps. As a true Russian, her body and determination had been carefully crafted for ballet.
Nata, Marcos, and I had first met during my initial tryout at the Colón. It was for a summer intensive, and my ticket to finally get into the most sought-after ballet program in South America.
I was beside myself and couldn’t control my nerves. I had dreamt this moment every day since I could remember, and now here I was, waiting for my turn among a few dozen others, all looking more collected and prepared than me. I watched a girl’s audition, and my stomach slowly fell. She moved flawlessly through her variation, a combination of complicated steps carefully planned to impress the panel of judges. My breathing shallowed as panic filled my chest.
I couldn’t do this. I wasn’t ready. Shit.
With my heart racing, I stood and hurried to the door. The hallway was deserted and too bright as the walls began closing in on me. Shit. Shit. I pressed my palm against a closed door, panting.
“Are you all right?” a voice behind me asked.
I shook my head no.
“What’s wrong?”
I shook my head again, unable to formulate the answer, and looked up at him. He was tall, dressed in black tights and a black T-shirt, and the epitome of the male dancer. His warm, caramel eyes waited.
“I think I’m having a panic attack,” I said in short, shallow breaths.
“Are you auditioning?”
“Yeah…no.” I shook my head. “I don’t know if I can.”
He watched me for a moment, surely wondering what the hell I was doing at the Colón if I was having a panic attack at the first audition. I was wondering the same thing.
“Wait here,” he said, then turned around and disappeared behind a door. A second later, he was back, holding a small square in his hand. “Come.” He put his hand on the small of my back and opened a door behind me, which led to a vacant studio. “What’s your last name?” he asked.
“Navarro,” I said. “Why?”
He frowned. “Are your related to Inés?”
“I’m her daughter,” I murmured. “But don’t…I don’t want people to know.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Well, auditions are alphabetical, and they’re on J right now, so we have enough time.”
“Enough time for what?”
He gave me a dashing smile and scrolled through his phone. “You have to forget about the audition and remember what you love about dancing and connect with that. This may do the trick. It’s cheesy, but stay with me, all right?”
Juan Luis Guerra’s “Me Sube la Bilirrubina” blasted through the small square he had placed on the floor, a portable speaker.
“What—”
He stepped facing me and took my right hand in his, wrapping his free arm around my waist. His face was inches from mine, and I was suddenly spellbound, breathless.
“Let go,” he whispered and began following the tropical trumpets of the Caribbean melody. It was lively, loud, fun, and one of those songs that when it plays, you just have to dance. I followed him on the salsa number he improvised. He was a magnificent dancer, confident, free, and for a few moments, I forgot where I was and I became his partner. He made it so easy that if anybody had been watching, they would have thought we were partners, rehearsing. When the music ended, I was panting. He smiled widely, showcasing slightly crooked teeth. He was undoubtedly the sexiest man alive.
“Better?” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah.” And as I said it, I realized it was true. The panic was gone, and all I felt was the freedom I always felt when I put on my dance shoes.
“Good,” he said. “Now go in there and kick some ass.”
In a trance, I hurried to the door, and as I opened it, I turned my head. “Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Marcos.” He winked. “Go.”
I waited for my approaching turn, closing my eyes and holding on to the sensation left by the dance with Marcos. In that moment it felt like a sign. As if the universe was telling me I shouldn’t give up.
A dancer stepped from behind me. She seemed a couple of years older than me, experienced. Her skin was ivory and her hair a furious red, tightly wrapped in a bun. She smiled warmly at me. It wasn’t unusual for dancers to watch the newcomers’ auditions. Hundreds of sylph-like girls from all over the country came to Buenos Aires every year, hoping to be chosen for a role that could earn them a spot in the Colón’s permanent ballet company.
“Are you next?” she said.
“Yeah.” I sighed. “You?”
She explained she was waiting for an audition for an upcoming tour, and I immediately recognized her, though she looked much younger without makeup. I was standing next to Natascha Zchestakova. She was a prima…the top spot. A pang of envy flashed through me as I glanced at the panel sitting behind a table in the center of the room. Their faces were blank, distant. They appeared bored and unimpressed by the unbelievable talent I saw in the room.
“Navarro,” Federico called.
Natascha gave my hand a squeeze. “Merde,” she said, the signature good-luck wish in the ballet world, and smiled. “You’ll do great. I saw you warming up. Just watch your feet. Federico pays close attention to that.”
“Thanks.” I swallowed hard. Inside my chest, my heart hammered in anticipation.
Federico waved for me to approach, frowning at the list he was holding. He then looked up at me. “Are you Inés’s daughter?”
“Yes, sir.” I locked my jaw, holding his gaze.
“She didn’t tell me you were coming. How wonderful to have you here. How is your mother?”
“Fine. She’s fine.” A low mumble buzzed in the back of the room, and Madame quickly hushed them. I had forbidden Mamá to tell anyone about my audition for this exact reason. Fire burned inside me as I took my place. I closed my eyes, summoning the feelings from the salsa dance with Marcos.
From the center of the room, I gazed at my reflection in the mirror before I began, studying the frightened ballerina staring back at me. Pulling every muscle against gravity, I let out a slow breath, repeating to myself: You were trained for this moment. This was it. The opportunity I had been rehearsing for my whole life.
In the seconds of stillness preceding the piano, I straightened my shoulders, fighting back my nerves, and stood in fifth, one leg in front of the other, waiting for the music. In the mirror, I spotted Marcos standing in the back, smiling at me.
“Merde,” he mouthed.
Two weeks later, I got the good news. I had been accepted into the summer intensive that potentially could earn me a permanent position in the cast. Nata was the first person I called. She said we had good karma. She also had gotten the prima role on the tour.
The summer was harder than I could have ever imagined. The nails on my big toes bled constantly, until they finally gave up and fell off. At night, my ankles screamed from the hours spent en pointe. I wrapped them in ice, clenching my teeth until I was numb. Every morning, I mended my battered body, stretched through my yoga routine, and started anew. And no matter how miserable I felt, I never let Madame see my pain.
Nata was my rock, encouraging me and giving me pointers to endure the evolving physical torture.
Those first days with the company were long, merciless. The only reward was knowing I was breaking through new physical and mental barriers. A snapshot of what my future could be.
It was the last day of that summer, when a thin envelope from the Colón Theater finally came. With trembling fingers, I opened the letter. I didn’t get past the first line before it all blurred. A contract in black and white to join the permanent corps de ballet. I wanted to scream, but my throat was thick. There it was. I was finally holding the beginning of my dream in my hand.
My parents’ home in the suburbs meant a forty-five-minute commute in a jam-packed train, and my days at the theater started early. Nata saw the dark circles under my eyes after the first few weeks and seemed genuinely worried. She lived in a small penthouse a few blocks from the theater and insisted I moved in with her. I had stayed over a few times before, but I had no money for rent, and I was no freeloader.
“You can’t do this if you don’t sleep,” she nagged in between classes.
Then one day, Madame snapped at me in front of the class for being late. I had gotten up early as usual, but the subways were on strike, and even in a taxi that cost me a fortune, I was fifteen minutes late. At the break, Nata pulled me aside.
“That’s it. You’re moving in with me,” she growled. “And I will hear nothing of it.”
Sharing an apartment with Nata meant abiding by her strict rules of punctuality. And I wish I could say I got better as the months went by. But I had inherited the gene of complete untidiness from my father, and no matter how hard I fought it for Nata’s sake, I was always missing something crucial as we were walking out the door. It drove Nata crazy, and the morning of the casting announcement was no different.
“I’m not kidding, I will leave without you,” she yelled from the hall while I scrambled to get the last of my stuff in my bag.
“Coming,” I yelled.
“You are a typical third child. You have the Youngest Child Syndrome. Nobody will cut you slack here.” She shut the elevator door and assessed her makeup in the mirror.
“I’m not the youngest, my brother is,” I said, even though she alre
ady knew that. I searched my bag. Where the hell was my other leg warmer? Shit, I could’ve sworn they were both in here yesterday. I smelled the one I had in my hand and made a face. Nata caught me from the mirror and shook her head in defeat.
I was more disorganized than usual, and I blamed it on stress—and not on the images of the stranger with clear blue eyes, that had been haunting my thoughts since yesterday. Rehearsals would begin as soon as casting was posted. Giselle was my favorite ballet, but also one of the most challenging productions of the season. Many roles would be assigned, and that meant new opportunities for getting noticed. So in the last two weeks, the atmosphere in the company had been…tense to say the least.
As Nata and I made our way through the hallway, my stomach immediately knew what was going on. A cloud of dancers hovered around the announcement board.
Nata squeezed my wrist and whispered, “It’s out.”
Chapter 3
“Let’s go see what we got.” Nata grinned. Of course, she was grinning. She would get the lead as Giselle. I, on the other hand, would be lucky to get a row-leading role in the corps.
“You go. I’ll let you surprise me.” I feigned a smile and she nudged me.
“You’re so self-deprecating. If you want them to believe in you, you have to start with this.” She tapped my temple with her index, then calmly made her way to the board.
